On The Road Again

Many questions have been asked about my long and illustrious career as a much sought-after guitarist:
Were you self-taught?
What was your first guitar?
What was the most gnarly on-stage antic you pulled?

Please, please.  Calm down.  Just because I'm retiring today, yes today, right after this press conference... What?  I thought this was the friggin' press conference.  I was told by, like everybody, my manager, Roi..... Roi, where are you. man?  My guitar tech, Jorge.  Tell 'em.  Mom?  Even my mother knows, well maybe not me Mum, but....Hey.  Don't push me, bub.  Don't you know who I am?  Take your hands off me, you nitwit.  Where are my bodyguards?  Please.  Don't touch those.  Help.  Help....................

I wake up in sheets of soggy sweat.  Hope it is sweat.  Just another bad dream for the 36th or 37th rated guitarist in the world.  It was just another poll, but.  Which one was it?  Oh ya, the Happy Canyon Ranch Annual Fest and Fun in the Sun Poll.  Never heard of it.  I sat up in bed.  Not a sound.  Took out an earplug.  Still no sound.  Hmmm.  Might want to see my doc about that again.  Ack.  Coff, coff.  A little nasal tweak and I'll be as good as a newborn.  There that ought to do it.  That damn crazy Hanz and his crazy drink, what'd he call it?  Oh ya, The Crazy Hanz.  Crazy, man.

I looked around my room.  Just another hotel in the long list of plenty.  Where was I?  Tremont?  Fremont?  I couldn't tell ya.  I just do what I have to do and try to do it well.  Hard sometimes to get up for every gig.  Day after day.  That dream still lingered in my cavernous melon.  Oh, well.  "I can't help 'bout the shape I'm in.  I can't sing I ain't pretty and my legs are thin."  Man, that says it all.

I pulled my carcass up and fired up the laptop.  Was it really time to hang up the pick?  I need some reassurance.  That poll.  I googled it.  Let's see.  Nappy.  Having a nap, fuzzy.  Curled or coiled hair.  A diaper?  What is this shit?  Nappy?  Do I need to call somebody that cared, somebody that actually thinks for me, somebody that could answer any of my deepest questions?  But my Mom wasn't home.  I think she was out at a Built To Spill concert.  Again.  Christ.  How many times does she need to see that Doug or Dave Martsch or March?  And a woman her age.  I mean. Spill  is cool and all, but I could play crop circles around him.  I am the true Spaceman.

I retyped.  Happy.  Canyon.  Ranch.  Ok, what is this crap?  A retirement home?  It had better be for rock- crazy, mad axemen, like myself.  A ranch could be cool.  We could ride out on Arabian horses and ride around, up around the bend, just ride, man, with the wind blowing in our faces.  Chuck Berry, Steve Miller and all the dudes from Slade and, hey, maybe it's in Arkansas and all the Black Oak guys, Jim Dandy to the rescue, will be there playing.  Ya, that'd be cool.  And the girls.  Maybe women.  Ah, who cares?  It'll be like old times.  Me opening for Brownsville Station, that Cub Koda was one crazy bastard.  Me opening for Arcangel.  Whatever happened to those dudes?  I think, Minneapolis band.  Real good.  Me opening for, ah, who am I shitting?  I never got to headline anything.  Unless you count that one scuzzy day at Sturgis in, I don't know, the mid 80's.  That totally sucked.  I totally brought my A-game and they threw shit at me.  I threw it back.  I think I broke my nose at that one.  Ya, good times.

Back to that poll.  This one looks kinda cheesy.  I mean, Jimi Hendrix first?  Shouldn't this be about the living?  I mean, come on.  Stevie Ray, Duane, Rory.  They can't even open for me.  Ha.  That's pretty clever, huh?  Ok, ok.  Scroll down.  Yep.  There it is.  Right after Mark Knoffler, that Dire Straits dude.  That's kinda impressive.  But, should I hang it up?  That dream was too real, man.  I know some guys are going solo and doing intimate small clubs and unplugged and shit.  Billy Squire, even.  "Lonely is the night.  When you find yourself alone."  Ya, I find myself alone a lot.  I don't know if my biggest song would translate solo.  I think it hit #84 in Tokyo.  "Got Rocks (in my boots)  Got Rocks (in my head)".   Yup, that song about that little lady that cast me aside like a rock.  Kept kicking me down that road till I was out of her life.  "I got rocks in my pockets.  I got rocks in my boots.  I got rocks in my head for loving you".  Ya, that probably won't sound so hot solo.

So, now what?  Waitin' for that call.  The call that says the show's cancelled.  Due to no ticket sales.  Due to the fact that nobody wants to hear the 36th or 37th best guitar god in this world.  Uh uh.  Nope.  I ain't givin' it up.  No way, Jose.  It's me or the highway.  Somethin' like that.  You'll have to pry my Strat from my arthritic, withered, calloused, shredded, old man hands.  Yup.  And I wouldn't mind going to that fun in the sun fest and totally destroying.  I'll prove that, dammit, next year I'll make it to #35.  I can only go up, right?  Rock on, my friend.